


Under a light of my own

by elephantastic



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, gratuitous post-coital poetry mentions, love is stored in the chubby martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 04:03:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21229496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephantastic/pseuds/elephantastic
Summary: "Sorry, I didn't mean—"Martin doesn't seem bothered. He sips his tea and watches, something quietly amused in his face, as Jon flounders.Jon snaps his mouth shut. Martin's eyes are gentle, wonderfully expressive, alive. Since last night, they've been a constant source of relief to Jon who can't shake off the awful, blank stare of the Lonely wearing Martin's face as it hollowed him out from the inside. They also make the coiled mess of feelings that sit heavy in Jon's chest expand ever so slightly. He's overflowing with them and with all the things that have been left unsaid.





	Under a light of my own

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is technically set after MAG 159, but since it's an exercise in venting my touch-starved yearnings I didn't bother much with silly things like plot. Elias? The Watcher's Crown? Multiple murderous fear entities loose both inside and outside of the archives? I don't know them. We can deal with all that on Thursday.
> 
> Also you'll have to take me out back and shoot me before i use the word arse in a fic so don't @ me.

Jon wakes up and Martin isn't there. He lies still for a second, disgruntled. Not worried because he knows Martin's fine, just in the bathroom. He's not sure if he heard the shower first or simply knew, preternaturally aware of Martin without even trying, an instinctive flexing of whatever part of the Beholding is still roiling just under his skin. The disgruntlement remains.

There hadn't been any pretense at distance when they'd tumbled into bed, too exhausted to do more than kick off their shoes and shuck their outer layers. Legs interlocked, hands grasping, Jon's face nuzzled all the way up into the warm, tangy space under Martin's jaw, they'd fallen asleep almost as fast as they'd fallen into each other. But now Jon feels like he's missed a step, not being awake when Martin untangled them.

He pulls himself out of bed and into the kitchen of his shitty studio flat, grumpy about how ridiculously bereft this leaves him feeling. Maybe Martin's aiming for normalcy. He can do normal. He can make breakfast. And tea. He opens the fridge to take stock. Half an onion, a bottle of brown sauce and an expired pack of bacon stare dejectedly back at him. He doesn't dare open the breadbin. Just tea, then. 

He leans back against the wall next to the counter and pointedly doesn't look at the door to the bathroom, waiting for the kettle to click off. He finishes stirring in the milk just as Martin emerges in a cloud of steam. Perfect timing. 

The annoyance he feels when he sees Martin has got dressed again is as irrational as it is acute. Another boundary that Jon's not ready to see reinstated.

"I made you some tea. Was—" His voice is too loud, awkwardly ripping through the silence in the flat and making Martin flinch. Jon cringes and tries again, softer. 

"I was going to make you breakfast, but I thought you'd been through enough... Sorry. Good morning." Jon frowns at that brilliantly executed nugget of human interaction. 

"You're fine, Jon." 

Martin smiles at him, his hair still damp, his dimple barely showing. He winces when his bare feet hit the kitchen's cold floor. His hands are warm and sure as they take the proffered mug. Jon cannot stop watching him. Here too he struggles to separate the Archivist from himself. Does this need to catalogue and observe everything about Martin come from a place of nasty eldritch voyeurism, or is it just a result of having missed him so viscerally for so long? How important is the nuance if he doesn't plan on stopping anyway?

Martin sighs. "It's perfect, thank you."

"Yes. Well. I do pay attention sometimes, you know." He'd been aiming for wry self-deprecation, but his words come out peeved and thin. Fuck. 

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

Martin doesn't seem bothered. He sips his tea and watches, something quietly amused in his face, as Jon flounders. 

Jon snaps his mouth shut. Martin's eyes are gentle, wonderfully expressive, alive. Since last night, they've been a constant source of relief to Jon who can't shake off the awful, blank stare of the Lonely wearing Martin's face as it hollowed him out from the inside. They also make the coiled mess of feelings that sit heavy in Jon's chest expand ever so slightly. He's overflowing with them and with all the things that have been left unsaid.

He needs to say it. Martin knows, of course he does. But that's not the point. Hasn't been for a while. It seems too loud and momentous for Jon's quiet, grotty kitchen with only the hum of the fridge, a dying spider plant and the grey, early morning light for company. It's also unstoppable by now, practically crawling out of his throat.

"Martin," he starts, and stops. His voice is an unconvincing trickle.

He inhales, squares his shoulders and pulls his eyes up from where the lino's curling back in the corner. 

"Martin, Lukas said some things in the Lonely and I wanted to address them." _God_, he sounds like such a prick. "That is, I—look. I meant what I said. I want to do more than just survive and I want you to hear it." He swallows thickly." To be sure. Martin, I trust you and I—I love you. You, not some version of you I've made up in my head. And I look forward to getting to know as much of you as I can."

Because he's already looking, he gets to see Martin's whole face crinkle up in equal parts pleasure and mortification. Maybe he'll just quit while he's ahead. Then again maybe not, because the knowledge that he made Martin look like that hits him like a head rush, bringing sharp, urgent curiosity along with it; what if he can make it happen again? What if he can make it happen better? 

The need to pursue that line of questioning is immediate and pressing, so he tugs the mug out of Martin's hands and onto the counter, gets a solid handful of Martin's upper arm and uses his grip to pull them gently into each other's space. 

The mortification is definitely winning out now, which wasn't what Jon had been hoping for. Martin's gone all squinty and can't seem to look any higher than Jon's collarbone for more than a second at a time. They're both breathing fast. Before Jon can let go and apologise—again—Martin leans in and presses a clumsy, close-mouthed kiss to his jaw.

"Thank you. For telling me." 

He hasn't pulled back, so the air behind his words fans out across Jon's neck. It tickles. It's also almost unbearably intimate. Tension running through him, Jon desperately flexes his free hand. The movement makes Martin look down at the space between them, his forehead almost leaning against Jon's shoulder. Jon presses his cheek to Martin’s temple and feels knuckles brush against the inside of his wrist, a split second of warning before Martin carefully fits the back of his hand into Jon's palm. 

The sensation of Martin's thumb stroking his little finger mixes with that of Martin nuzzling his way across Jon's face. He bumps their noses together and keeps going to kiss Jon's other cheek, then the corner of his mouth. Jon reaches back and they're kissing properly. Not properly, much better than that. Both of them are more enthusiastic than they are practiced, but Martin's mouth is hot from the tea and Jon can periodically feel the shape of a smile under his lips. 

Martin breaks Jon's hold on his bicep by reaching up to wrap his arms around Jon's shoulders. This knocks them off balance and Jon lets out a small huff as he gets walked backwards into the wall. He uses his newly freed hands to go exploring. He grasps the back of Martin's neck, his chest, his hips; everywhere he touches has a lovely give to it. When Jon grabs the very top of Martin's thigh, Martin tenses and presses closer. After a beat, he takes Jon's other hand and deliberately moves it down to his ass. 

Jon pulls back, something pricking up inside him, telling him he wants to see this. Martin's hand is still wrapped around Jon's wrist, and he looks furiously embarrassed and determined and completely open. Quintessentially himself. It sends a stupid, wild stab of tenderness through Jon. He adjusts his grip and squeezes. Martin's breath stutters, so Jon pulls him closer, pushes a leg between Martin’s to give him something to rub off against. Caught off guard, Martin lets out a squeak and jerks a little. He's beautifully flushed all the way across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. He's scrunched his eyes closed, and Jon can tell he's fighting the urge to turn away and hide his face, but instead he stays where he is, vulnerable and wanting, and he lets Jon look at him. 

Jon takes this gift and draws it out until Martin's mouth is hanging open while he grinds himself mindlessly on Jon's thigh, then he reels him back in to kiss him. 

"You're incredible, Martin," he whispers into the curly, damp hair behind Martin's ear. Martin laughs shakily. 

"Can we take this to bed?"

Jon nods, and they stumble back over to the bedroom. 

"Don't know why you felt the need to get dressed again." Jon grouses while ditching his t-shirt and scrabbling at Martin's belt. 

"I was being considerate, you git! Giving you space." Martin yanks off his jumper, his hair is sticking up everywhere. "I didn't exactly think that sex was where this morning was headed."

"Yes, well. Neither did I. But I had rather hoped for some more cuddling." Jon makes a face at Martin's raised eyebrows and his own cringey, naked honesty, and soldiers on, "What on earth made you think that space was something I wanted right now?"

There's a pause. Then Martin knocks Jon's hands out of the way and rolls them over, plastering himself to Jon's front. It's exactly what Jon wanted when he woke up, Martin as far on top of him as he can go, a solid weight blocking out anything that isn't them, except it's also much better because Martin has slowed everything down and he's kissing Jon, deep and unhurried and aching. 

"We don't have to go further if you don't want to. If you just want to be close, I mean? That's ok too." Martin's hand is gentle on Jon's ribs as he checks in. Jon doesn't even have to think about his answer. 

"No, I do want to. I want to make you feel good. Thank you though. For asking." Martin's half-undone belt is pressing uncomfortably into Jon's hip. "But you know the whole point of this was getting you out of your clothes."

Martin snorts and rolls off to start wriggling his trousers down. Jon lends a hand in a way that's perhaps more self-indulgent than strictly efficient, but soon enough Martin is naked. He smells indescribably good, miles of warm, clean skin on display. Jon supposes he's cataloguing again, but there's nothing detached or clinical about this. He surprises even himself by giving in to the instinct to kiss the crook of Martin's elbow, rub his face in the hair on his chest, run his nose down the inside of Martin's thigh and into the crease where it meets his pelvis. He pauses between Martin's open legs.

"Can I?"

"If you want to."

Jon settles himself, shoulders pressed in close under Martin's thighs. He takes Martin in his mouth and sucks gently. He licks and works his jaw and delights in Martin straining and trembling around him, the way his belly yields under Jon's fingers, the happy babble of gasps, praise and love tripping out of Martin's mouth. When Martin comes, it's in a long rush. He shouts, both his hands cradling Jon's head, eyes trained on Jon's. 

Jon pulls away and carefully deposits Martin's legs back on the bed. Martin doesn't seem inclined to move from where he's panting, flat on his back, so Jon lies down beside him to press his face back up under Martin's jaw, right where it was when they fell asleep together yesterday. 

Martin hums happily, "Jon, that was—really good. Thank you."

He reaches down to pull one of Jon's legs over his, fitting them more snugly together. Jon hasn't been paying much attention to his own body, but he now realises that he's half-hard against Martin's hip. He slings an arm around Martin, drawing curlicues on his side with a finger.

Martin turns his head, dislodging him, and they both go a bit cross-eyed trying to look at each other in such close quarters. Martin giggles, high-pitched and still breathless, and Jon can't help but smile back. 

"Can I get you off?" Martin asks into the small, warm space between them.

Jon could take or leave the orgasm, but he's been enjoying Martin's hands on him, enjoying seeing him so unguarded, and he's curious to see how Martin will handle them both in this.

"Yes."

"What would you like?"

Jon feels himself blushing at being asked outright. 

"Could you maybe, uh, get back on top of me?"

Martin grins and straddles Jon readily enough, nestling his knees either side of Jon's hips. Jon takes him in, but now that he's not laid out under Jon, Martin seems more self-conscious. He glances away, and Jon follows his gaze to where his t-shirt lies discarded on the floor.

"Don't." Martin looks back at him sharply, and Jon feels like a dick. "No. Sorry. I mean do—whatever you need to be comfortable. But I like the way you look. I—I like looking at you. 

Martin's face is doing the mortified but happy thing again, so Jon levers himself up to kiss him. He wraps both arms around Martin's thick waist, squeezes enough to make a point. 

Martin looks steadier when they break apart. He lies Jon back down and tilts his head, considering.

"You can touch me anywhere you like." 

Jon shudders and nods. Martin starts kissing, sucking and biting his way from pulse point to navel to nipple to collarbone and back in an infuriating and unending cycle. Jon feels hot and exposed and very hard now, and Martin seems to be going everywhere but below his hips. He's digging his fingers into Martin's thighs when it clicks: Martin's still waiting for Jon to tell him what he wants. 

"Touch me, Martin. Please." It comes out as a testy whine, but Martin only laughs softly. 

"OK, Jon."

Martin takes his time. He rubs them together through Jon's boxers, pulls the waistband down just enough to be able to get a hand on him. He doesn't move, just strokes his thumb up and down the underside of Jon's cock and leans in for a kiss. Jon's whole body twitches upwards. Martin looks distinctly pleased with himself when he sits back. He spits in his hand, and the pressure around Jon's cock becomes wet and wonderful. His other hand finds Jon's chest, pressing him firmly into the mattress as he works him. 

"God, Martin." Jon grabs at Martin's shoulder. "Ah! Tha—that's really good." 

Martin's smile is warm, expansive, his voice soft. He coaxes Jon through it.

"That's it, Jon. I love you. Let go."

Jon's orgasm hits, intense and shivery. His grip on Martin's shoulder tightens compulsively, and Martin lets himself be pulled in close, dusts a kiss high on Jon's cheekbone. Then he rolls off, giving Jon space to come down.

Jon sits up to snag his shirt and wipe his stomach off. Behind him, Martin looks dishevelled and inviting, tucked into a mess of sheets that smell like them, so Jon lets himself topple right back over and burrow his face into Martin's hip. Martin's hand lands in his hair, stroking him, pensive.

"Penny for your thoughts."

"I was thinking about a poem, actually," Martin replies absently. Then his eyes turn hunted, and he mutters. "Um—I didn't mean to say that. The endorphins made me do it."

Jon props himself up on an elbow. 

"Tell me." Cold washes down his spine as soon as the words leave his mouth. "Uh—or not! Only if you want to."

Martin sees him tense up and, instead of taking the easy way out, he gives, immediate and uncomplaining, protecting Jon the way he always does.

“It goes like this—_Come, let me tell you about my infinite loneliness._  
_It could never have foreseen this incursion of your shape.  
__Such is the nature of love_.”

Jon feels a bit light-headed.

"That's not Keats," he blurts, intelligently. 

"No, Jon. It isn't. Maybe Peter had a point after all, it's like you don't know me at all." 

Martin's tone is light and fond, but Jon feels a frown slam down over his eyebrows in protest nonetheless. Before he can open his mouth to strenuously voice his displeasure, Martin breaks back in. 

"It's an Iranian poet. Sohrab Sepehri. He uses Romantic influences in his writing and does a lot of stuff about nature, so you weren't that far off really. You'd probably hate it, too." 

Martin's teasing him, and Jon probably hasn't seen him look this loose and easy since before Tim died, but it still doesn't sit right.

"Will you read them to me?"

"What?"

"Keats, Sepehri, your whole collection of Romantic, nature-obsessed poets, will you read them to me some time?"

The wave of tenderness that crashes over Martin's face at Jon's request is truly a sight to behold.

"Yes, Jon. I will."

**Author's Note:**

> AND THEN THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER. THE END. Take notes Jonny boy. 
> 
> This fic is very much inspired by some truly excellent art by mundycide that she preferred I not link. I 100% did not expect to be writing explicit fic for this particular pairing but my brain went rogue and now we're here.
> 
> I'm also suffering over on [tumblr](http://benevolentbridgetroll.tumblr.com)


End file.
